


I've seen your face a thousand times and loved it every one

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Nanny Ashtoreth & Brother Francis, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Post-Apocalmost, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 14:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19725220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: Love someone long enough and you start to see all the best parts of them in other people, in things, places even. Love someone for six thousand years, someone you shouldn't, and you start to see his smile in some random man or his curls on that woman over there. Love him that long and you'll realise no familiar part could ever make up for his ineffable whole.





	I've seen your face a thousand times and loved it every one

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has some non-linear elements. The first section is pre-apocalmost, the second is post, 3rd is pre, 4th is post, and so on. The shorter parts are all pre and the longer are all post.

He’s across the pond performing a minor temptation when the woman ambles into the restaurant his human “ _associates_ ” chose. She’s dark skinned, a sort of warm sun brown, but the curls falling all around her face, spilling over her shoulders, they’re golden. A pale, off-white kind of gold that _shines_ with the afternoon sun behind her.

Crowley almost forgets what he’s saying, glad for his dark glasses and the darker corner his associates have holed up in. When his slit pupils dilate, grow big and round and inhuman, they can’t see a thing. When he utterly loses the thread of conversation because the woman tossed her golden hair, they don’t realise.

These associates of his, they want their boss dead, say he’s gotten too greedy. Crowley’s only here to make sure they go through with it. A death like what they’re planning’s bound to be high profile and nattered about. It’d cause a right spot of chaos, and he’s always happy to take responsibility for that. He can send a nice memo to Head Office about it.

The head of the murder brigade wants to make it clean and quiet, a quick one between the eyes, Crowley would prefer something a bit flashier. Though he really can’t say what he’d prefer when the woman smiles big and bright and heads over to a table. Stepping out of the sunlight gets rid of the shine in her hair but it doesn’t get rid of the colour. ‘s a nice colour, very…nice.

Her hair is exactly four shades away from being familiar and stands out very well against her dark clothes, which might be the point. Not like…well not like some _other_ persons with pale hair framing their dazzling smiles like a divine halo.

…right.

“The longer you all spend bickering, the more of _your_ money he’s wasting on obnoxious mansions,” Crowley points out, dragging the conversation back around to the money. Money made the world go round and made men see red, pretty easy to tempt people with money.

The men all twist their mouths and wrinkle their noses and mutter ominously and Crowley knows he has them. Another couple souls for the pit and another commendation from Head Office, wonderful.

* * *

To be perfectly honest, Crowley doesn’t understand the “ _joys of reading_ ”. What sit down for hours and imagine along to some other bugger’s story? Go off on grand adventures to emotionally connect with a few feral children or a barmy chosen one? Nah, not for him.

What’d be the point anyway? Those books weren’t even half as fantastical as his actual existence. Heaven, even the last six thousand years would fill any book chock full of magic and mysticism and enough dystopia to choke a horse. Six thousand years of mucking around in human history, dealing with devils, thwarting one ineffable angel was already loads better than any fantasy book.

Not to mention the time he spent up in the cool breach of space building creches for young nebulae and sowing stardust through solar systems to be. Binary stars? His idea! What good were solitary stars? No good! Better have two of the things orbiting each other so one didn’t get lonely’s what he said. Be a pity to make something so incredible and not have it be one of a pair.

…point is, reading isn’t his idea of fun. Fun is racing down the streets in the Bentley listening to a good song. Fun is tempting mortals into minor, irritating sins and watching the fall out from somewhere nearby.

Curling up with a good book isn’t his idea of a good time but curling up in a good book _store_ is. Though he couldn’t say Aziraphale’s store is _good_ , nothing ever got sold for one, and Aziraphale actively chased people out for another. Hell knew why that buggers kept coming back.

As long as Crowley’s known the place, people have been sneaking in through the barely cracked doors trying to buy the crinkled old books in here. They were all so convinced Mr AZ Fell would sell to them because they had enough money or charm or _something_. He’s made a game of it, watching Aziraphale chase would-never-be-customers out with everything but his holy sword. And after the Apo _came-and-went_ , there wasn’t anything quite as good as lounging around while Aziraphale shooed people away.

The old place was back in tip-top, prim-proper condition, the Anti-Christ had done a bang-up job really. Even got the dust just right on the taller shelves Aziraphale pretended were too high for him, as if he needed to physically clean anything. Crowley’s on one of them now actually, lounging around as a snake just for the Heaven of it, and watching the newest customer-not-to-be.

“Madam I do apologise but this isn’t for sale,” Aziraphale repeats for the perhaps seventh time and the woman huffs for the ninth. Crowley blinks away the dust and tastes the frustration building in the air; he’d laugh if it wouldn’t give him away. Not that he wants to stay hidden but there are _rules_ for being a snake in the shop.

Aziraphale might not want to ever sell any of his old books, and neither them have much in the way of supervisors anymore, but talking snakes are downright odd. Any kind of publicity was bad publicity as far as Aziraphale was concerned and Crowley wasn’t keen on more humans wandering in here. And he knew exactly the sort that’d go looking for talking snakes, he’d created paranormal tv shows after all.

“Money’s no object Mr Fell, really it isn’t, and I simply must have that copy of Hamlet,” the woman insists, taking a step forward, like she’d really be able to snatch the book out of Aziraphale’s hands. Crowley snorts, as best a snake can, fat chance. The old Bard signed that copy specially for Aziraphale, the same night it became a hit actually.

A spider scuttles by as the woman narrows her sharp green eyes but she’s nothing. Crowley’s seen worse than her come in here and Aziraphale’s dealt with them easy as pie. He’s only holding back because it’s almost closing time; four more minutes and he can happily throw this woman out.

“For Heaven’s sake man! What kind of shop is this?!” she damn near shrieks and Crowley slithers down from the shelf. Three minutes to closing and bless the rules.

Aziraphale is glaring now, frown set firmly in place and Crowley rolls his eyes, oh angel. The woman has her hands on her hips, chin thrust imperiously as she stares down this impetuous book clerk. How dare he not sell her a book that isn’t for sale?

She doesn’t even notice eight feet of sleek snake slowly winding around Aziraphale’s legs and up along his back. She does notice when a black and red head pops up over the “ _man’s_ ” delightfully curly head though. Her eyes go wide as comprehension dawns blinding bright and she takes a trembling step back as he coils around Aziraphale’s shoulders. His angel doesn’t falter under the weight, doesn’t even dip, only keeps glaring at the woman.

“Y-you—what is that?!” the woman yells, backpedalling right into a bookcase, bolted down thankfully. Crowley yawns at her, unhinging his jaw to make it all the more impressive and intimidating. His fangs are quite long, longer than a regular snake’s would be, and they’re rather impressive if he does say so himself. They _glint_ in the light.

“Oh my Lord!” the woman screams, scrambling around the case and stumbling backwards. Her eyes are just about bulging out her head now, no more narrowed little beads of green. No more arguing either or demanding books that aren’t for sale from men who aren’t book sellers.

“That was inspired, dear boy,” Aziraphale says after she’s bumbled her way out again, reaching up to stroke his side. Crowley could say something like “ _it was just a little mischief really_ ”, keep up appearances and all that, but Aziraphale’s fingers are caressing his scales now and ohhh that’s _hellish_. 

No one else sneaks in during the few seconds it takes Aziraphale to flip the closed sign, but Crowley doesn’t think he would’ve noticed. Snakes, as a species, do not enjoy scritches, scratches, or pets of any kind but Aziraphale’s got a fantastic touch. Crowley’s lost in a blissful haze as Aziraphale putters about, tidying his collection and drawing all the curtains.

Soon enough the bookshop’s just theirs again and Aziraphale settles down for a read with Crowley wound snug around his shoulders.

“This one again, angel?” Crowley whines when he recognises the familiar first words. Buggre Alle This Bible is the only one to ever mention Aziraphale and Crowley’s memorised it; he could repeat it backwards and while utterly sloshed.

“Oh hush, you don’t have to read with me,” Aziraphale points out, smiling his wily angel smile, and Crowley huffs. Of course he doesn’t but of course he _will_ , he doesn’t want to move after all, besides, his angel’s in this one.

* * *

Caribbean’s hot this time of year, hot every time of year really but this time is particularly scorching. All the water in the air doesn’t help either but Crowley keeps his residence a few degrees cooler than the sauna outside. Not a person comes through his door without remarking on it.

Officially, he’s here to tempt revolutionaries and incite riots. Unofficially, he’s here to ease some pain and suffering, while watching the riots happen all their own and still taking the credit. Of the two, the easing of suffering’s the more interesting bit and Crowley doesn’t mind doing it, even if he won the coin toss. Aziraphale wanted to take care of some shop work and Crowley really doesn’t mind a trip to the colonies.

And maybe it’s because he’s thinking of the angel, his…friend. Maybe it’s that, Aziraphale on his mind, but Crowley stares when the next “ _patient_ ” of his “ _clinic_ ” comes in.

It isn’t Aziraphale, of course not, but the man who leads a listless girl into the room has something about him that’s so blessedly familiar. Something in the gentle way he holds he girl’s shoulders, the way his smile is caring but worried and his eyes are so open. They’re a lovely shade of brown, deep and dark and simply lovely.

His voice isn’t like Aziraphale’s either, no crisp British accent and cleanly bitten off words. This man, his name is _Michael_ , has the local accent, his words are smoothed down and some letters switch places but Crowley likes it. There’s a sort of music to it that’s rather hard not to sway along to.

Crowley’s never been charmed, doesn’t know if that bit of mortal hokum is even real, but he imagines it must feel like this. Listening to a man named for an angel explain how this girl, his daughter, is sick and has been for a few weeks and what can they do? Please doctor, she’s my one piece of child, I don’t want to lose her.

The sincerity in his words nearly scorches, borders on holy, and Crowley sits back in his chair with a cough. Right.

“Let me see, I’ll have to examine her of course, and she might have to take medication,” and Crowley goes off into the usual spiel.

Michael nods along, hanging onto every word, and Crowley has to reign himself in. That kind of attention is…heady, it’s pure and true and very nearly divine. Which should be bad, divinity is unwelcome, terrible really.

Crowley keeps talking long after he’s miracled the girl well again; she would’ve been dead within the week if he was a mortal doctor. Michael keeps listening even though the words don’t quite make sense; he trusts the doctor. And when Crowley finally runs out of words, he examines the girl, has her breathe for him and checks her pulse.

Then, he gives her a spoonful of tonic and a packet of herbs to drink as a tea for the week. He doesn’t taken payment, never does, and sends them both on their way. And he wonders if Aziraphale would’ve smiled as widely as Michael.

* * *

Hell liked to talk about him going native all the time, said he indulged far too much in ridiculous mortal creations.

“Really Crowley, you’re too venerable a demon to be this comfortable with their…things,” Head Office would sometimes add in their memos to him. He wasn’t a young thing sent up to possess a doll or make some mischief with a nun, he had something of an image to upkeep.

“Flash bastard,” Hastur and Ligur would mutter but that was the extent of it.

Hell accepted that he knew about human things because he spent so much time caught up in human business. He drove an absurd car because it helped his human image; to humans he was some rich bugger who could afford to swan around in a vintage Bentley. He wore strange clothes because they were fashionable, couldn’t blend in if he didn’t follow fashion.

They mostly accepted gender the same way, whether Crowley turned up wearing so called women’s clothes or men’s or an eclectic mix of both. Gender wasn’t something Demons, or Angels, cared for, it was another human thing the Head Office didn’t really get but mentioned in memos. Hell was mostly of the impression that gender was some sort of filing system for resource management.

Honestly, Crowley couldn’t say they were entirely wrong; they weren’t right per se but they weren’t wrong. Whatever Hell thought though, it never mattered to him. Crowley had a vintage car because he liked human automobiles and thought the Bentley was particularly slick. He wore fashionable clothes because he thought they suited him, and he chose genders as it suited him.

He'd never had one before, before the Fall and before the earth. He quite liked playing with this human thing; men and women and both and neither, it was fun. And figuring out human gender patterns is a tricky thing, a puzzle that’s always evolving; sometimes entertaining, sometimes ridiculously obtuse. Crowley does like it though, even if he does spend more time without a specific human gender than with.

For tonight’s dinner with Aziraphale though, Crowley thinks female might be more fun. Not long skirts and plunging necklines, it’s not a fashion show, but longer hair and an updated version of the nanny outfit might be it. Nanny Ashtoreth might’ve been getting most of her compliments on how well she handled young Warlock, but a few got spared for her impeccable fashion sense.

Once, the Butler had proposed a romantic retreat to a pub he knew just down the way, blue eyes gleaming as he licked his lips and smiled too tight. Sometimes the secret service would mumble a few words about how well she was looking that day, eyes dipped down behind their flimsy shades. Most often though, and most welcome, were the days Brother Francis’ invited her into the garden with Warlock and rained compliments down on the lovely Nanny.

When they meet tonight, Crowley picking Aziraphale up in the Bentley and dressed in sleek black leather and lace, Aziraphale compliments her again. Says it suited her complexion and the lace really does compliment her fine bone structure, both elegant of course. And when she gets out of the car, towering over him in heeled leather boots, he blinks, tips his head up at her, then down again with a frown.

“Is that snakeskin dear? Not real I hope” Aziraphale frets, and Crowley smirks. She’s never worn fake.

They have dinner like they always do, with Aziraphale ordering actual food and Crowley only asking for deserts and wine. They talk about the shop and the world and their respective sides and all the memos they haven’t sent. Aziraphale offers her bites of whatever’s on his plate and Crowley dutifully opens her mouth for them.

She doesn’t eat as much as him, food isn’t her favourite vice, but Aziraphale likes to feed her. He enjoys sharing his pleasures, the things he finds intriguing. He did try getting her into books some centuries ago but it never took, most books are _boring_. Food, though, is much better middle ground. Food’s always good and Aziraphale has excellent taste.

When the wine comes, Crowley pours them both a glass and toasts to nothing really. This isn’t the Ritz, but still fancy, and this isn’t the Apocalmost, but still special. They’re having dinner, together, like they’ve done through the millennia, but for one of the very first times, they don’t have to worry about prying eyes.

If either of their Head Offices see them here together, eating and drinking and talking, there won’t be reprimands or summons. Gabriel is terrified of Aziraphale, and of word of his botched execution getting out; possibly more worried word’ll go round that the execution happened _without_ a trial. Beelzebub might suspect something but they wouldn’t say, it would cause too much chaos, and what if they were _wrong_?

Then Hell would have the wrath of a holy water immune demon and a hellfire resistant angel bearing down on it. And sure, two against ten million might be rubbish odds but those two could do quite a bit of damage before they go.

Oh no, much easier to just leave this strange pair alone. Leave them to their wining and dining and smiling across their table.

* * *

Humans are odd, they have odd notions and odd beliefs and the oddest idea of the supernatural. They’ll believe in vampires and werewolves, but they’ll think the two hate each other. They love to think magic is real but hate the idea of it being mundane. How dare magic have _rules_ and _laws_ , nasty and inconvenient that.

Humans, Crowley has come to understand, are in love with a more mystical world than the one he knows. Damn their incredible imaginations and notions.

“So you want me to pop round, write some cryptic words in blood, and give the old bat a proper scare?” he asks, just to be sure. This is supposed to be a contract after all, can’t go around with a contract full of whopping great loopholes.

“Maybe some demonic whispering and visions of the dead too? If you could, Sir Demon,” the Witch Mother suggests and Crowley nods, scratching it on his burning parchment with a burning quill. He got both at the party store down the street from his apartment, they’re quite good. Fooled the last set of humans to “ _summon_ ” him and is fooling this set.

These self-taught witches couldn’t have conjured a morally grey fly, but he’d decided to take pity on them; they’d been trying this ritual of theirs for weeks. He thinks it could be good for a laugh next time he has dinner with Aziraphale. Appearing in a swirl of smoke and candle fire and offering up a contract to these witches was all for a story.

That’s it, a story and a bit of mischief. He does not in any way care that the Witch Mother is nicely plump and persnickety about her books. It in no way matters that she wears a pair of reading glasses and combs through her tombs on a nightly basis, determined to learn the secret of magic from them. She does **_not_** remind him of anyone, not a single person.

“That can be arranged,” he answers, rolling up the contract and sticking it in his back pocket. He’d have them sign it but the quill’s out of ink and he’s not the blood letting sort.

“Thank ye, Sir Demon, for hearing our summons and enacting our dark will,” the Witch Mother says, so ardent and true. Doesn’t mean a single thing that her bright eyes are the palest shade of green a human can have.

He wants to please her sure but only to live up to his demonic…ness. They called up a demon and he answered, joke or not, he’s going to give them a good show. He absolutely does not care about impressing this odd Witch Mother who thought fake blood would do since she couldn’t possibly ask her young witches to use their own.

“Right then, your dark wishes shall be granted. Marlene will a model neighbour after this,” he promises, winking at the Witch Mother, and disappearing in a puff of candle smoke.

* * *

Angel wings and Demon wings aren’t all that different, they both rest heavy behind the shoulder blades and they’re both feathery affairs in close colours. Course, some Angels come with gold, or silver, or clear crystal to throw rainbows everywhere. And sure some Demons magicked theirs darker, blood reds and midnight blues, a few even took up tribute to Pollution and thought oil slick rainbow was the way to go.

In the beginning, the second beginning, after the Fall, Crawly had kept his wings pristine white. He hadn’t meant to Fall, never wanted to become a Demon, and his wings were a rebellion against the rebellion. White was pure, white was natural, white was what he’d keep his wings.

Thing about white though, it was easy to muck up. Specially in a place like Hell where there wasn’t anything _but_ muck. No matter how tight he tucked or how high he held them, Crawly’d find sooty dust and sulphury mud clinging to his secondaries. Obviously he couldn’t leave them like that, so he’d have to block out time for grooming in some dark corner away from everyone else.

And afterwards, one walk through the office would dirty them up again. Blackening his wings was a practical choice, entirely practical, nothing to do with the nasty looks other Fallen gave him. Beelzebub’s lingering glare wasn’t a problem as her steel grey wings trailed on the floor. Not at all.

Black was practical, it fit the setting and didn’t show dirt as easy. Black made it less painful when he sat down for a grooming and found volcanic ash instead of star dust. Black was thematic for a Demon, fit in perfectly, and he’d never seen fit to change it again in all the time since.

Except, well, it had been such a _long_ time since he’d seen an angel’s wings. Aziraphale never felt the need to show his in all the time he’d spent on earth and Crowley didn’t exactly know any other angels. When he’d stopped time during the Apoca- ** _don’t_** _-say-it_ had been the first time in six thousand long years, and now he wonders.

He’s on his own side with Aziraphale now, the two of them and all of humanity against Heaven and Hell. He could change the colour back. No one would notice of course, wasn’t like he went around with his wings out like some fool fledge, but _he’d_ know.

“Sorry for the wait! I was reorganising the encyclopaedias and loss track of time.”

Aziraphale bustles into the apartment with arms full of grocery bags and excuses falling off his tongue. He thoroughly interrupts the quiet of the apartment, the minimalist aesthetic of the kitchen, and Crowley’s odd thoughts. A minor miracle without lifting a finger.

“Though, I did get to the shops before the midday rush so I’d say no harm done,” Aziraphale continues, pulling this and that from his bags while Crowley shifts from his sprawl.

Aziraphale’s decided to make it a point, since they don’t have supervisors anymore, to visit Crowley’s apartment as often as possible. And, as of last week Tuesday, he’s decided to try his hand at cooking in Crowley’s sleek, modernist— _came with the apartment_ —kitchen. And, because he’s Aziraphale, he’s started with baked sweets and chilled ices.

“And what’s today’s nibble to be, angel?” Crowley asks, throwing himself on a barstool and propping his elbows on the counter. He’s right in the middle of Aziraphale’s work space and he’s been shooed off once, but it was barely half-hearted.

Angel says he’s a good taste tester, and good company when he’s not trying to swallow things whole just because he can. And cooking’s more fun with someone around anyway, so a demon thoroughly in the way is more than welcoming.

“I found a lovely recipe for chocolate cream squares, the picture was simply marvellous,” and his angel’s off. Describing the fluffy texture of this or the rich sauce for that, and Crowley smiles as he listens.

Aziraphale moves up and down as he ferrets out bowls and mixers and measurers, talking non-stop about how much he can’t wait to taste this new thing. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t stop and ask where things are. He’s been over so much and cooked so much more that he knows his way around now and is quite comfortable putting things where he wants them.

He has white wings, angel’s wings, that he keeps tucked away. Pretty swan wings, big and sleek, to beat things away or keep others safe. Aziraphale wouldn’t care if Crowley turned his wings neon green, he’d find something to compliment, and offer a groom. If Crowley made them polka-dot spotted, or burning gold, wouldn’t matter.

Aziraphale would accept it, just like his name and them being on their own side. He would, Crowley had no doubt.

He would also forgive some of his chocolate batter being stolen. Hopefully.

* * *

When he bought the flat, there were four rooms. The master bedroom for all the sleeping he loved to do with an ensuite bath to make things convenient. A kitchen that he’d never cooked in and never touched beyond the daily cup of black coffee— _with three sugars and cream_ —except when he decided to burn a few eggs. An office he’d arranged into the epitome of modern sophistication with a desk, a throne, and an ancient answering machine.

And, the pièce de résistance, the lounge where he kept his music, his very few books, and his luxurious indoor garden. He’s had everything from flowering shrubs and planter herbs to a full rubber tree, though not as tall as it could be due to the space available in a London flat. They’re all rather lovely; perfect leaves, perfect trunks, always watered as per species specification, and always enough sun to grow well.

Of course, no plant of his dare grow any way _other_ than well. They all knew what happened if they didn’t meet his expectations, and they had nightmares about one day falling from grace.

On that day, the most dreaded day, they’d be dumped down the garbage disposal and their pot, still stained with their old soil, would get toted around the flat as a warning. No plant had ever returned from the garbage disposal, not a shred of leaf or bit of root. And that was exactly the way Crowley liked it, how else could he earn the respect he deserved?

What? Not like he had a separated section that’d been expanded over the years into a fifth room. Not as though he had a whole second greenhouse full of all the plants who’d ever failed to be perfect all their lives.

There’s no such room in his flat and he does not visit such a place regularly. He has no reason to go there and talk to any failure plants who absolutely did not exist. He doesn’t talk to them in a calmer voice, quieter, and say all the things he wishes someone had said to him after his Fall. How no thing could be perfect, not when the goal posts kept changing, not when free will existed and endured.

Crowley had never once gone to a wilted golden hahnii— _snake plant_ —and told it that it damn well deserved to be…liked. It was an alright chap, not too bad looking, not very terrible; there were still some redeeming qualities to it. So what if it hadn’t made the cut first round through, and so what if it loved some purple leafed oxalis that never wilted a day in its life and was utterly astonishing? So what?

That succulent, which did not exist, deserved to be lo— _liked_ same as anything else. It didn’t have to prove itself, it didn’t!

Because it didn’t exist, _obviously_.

* * *

In the very many years he’s spent on earth, Crowley’s never gone out of his way to make mortal friends, but he does like them. Ever since Eve and Adam back at the very beginning, Crowley’s had something of a detached interest in humans.

They are, by their very nature, sinful creatures, it’s what the Almighty declared. Eve eating the apple, just that, turned the whole lot of them into sinful little bastards. Sometimes he’s sorry about that, he didn’t think the humans would get thrown out and away like that. Humans were supposed to be God’s new favourites, dearer to Her than anything else and made in Her ineffable image.

Crowley, of all things, should’ve known the Almighty didn’t quite play favourites the way others did. She’d given humans everything but free will because they needed to cease it for themselves, and a demon’s temptations leading them into it was good enough for Her. One demon, one apple, two humans, and one original sin; there were probably worse ways to start off human history.

Course, after they got cast out, Crowley hung around Adam and Eve for a while. He watched them learn to build, learn to cook, have their first few kids, and did his best to comfort poor Eve when her kids murdered each other. He wouldn’t have called them friends, more like his first day on the job, but they’d called _him_ friend. ‘s good enough really, and he didn’t actually mind being their friend.

That said though, Crowley doesn’t actually _want_ more human friends, he’s quite fine with what he’s not got, but Aziraphale isn’t. Aziraphale thinks more involvement in human affairs might prepare them for whatever comes next, besides, they’re “ _retired_ ” now and it can’t hurt. Crowley thinks Aziraphale just wants a handy excuse to finally talk to his neighbours and be the superior bookshop owner.

Not that Crowley’s complaining. Aziraphale doesn’t actually make him talk to any of the people in his new book club, meetings held in the previously empty space above his store, but he does ask Crowley to sit in a few times. Which he does, because Aziraphale asked. He asked in his “ _you’re free to say no but it would make me terribly sad if you did_ ” voice with his eyes cast down and his lip nearly trembling.

So, now Crowley’s an unofficial member of a book club, a _book club_.

“Personally, I never could abide regional changes,” Mrs Smith, of Little Tots; Books for Tykes, sniffs and Crowley hums absently. Aziraphale doesn’t make him read— _thank Hell_ —but he does ask Crowley— _tells him_ —to sit with the group in a squashy armchair that just about sucks him into the cushion.

Crowley _doesn’t_ sit in the armchair, so **_there_** Aziraphale.

“Here here,” he mumbles from his spot _next_ to Aziraphale on a very comfy couch.

The other members of the book club make various approving noises and Aziraphale nods along with them. Crowley can feel it because he’s sprawled off on the couch with his head pillowed on his angel’s thigh, drowsing, and very much not engaging in the discussion. He’s not looing at a single person and hasn’t even bought a copy of their weekly book; he’s definitely not a part of this.

Being on a first name basis with all these humans and knowing their favourite genres is just happenstance. Being able to sprawl off, to lay _on_ Aziraphale, in their presence and not feeling a lick of worry about it is just…stuff. They’re human, they can’t hurt him, what’s it matter if he’s comfortable around them?

“Though, there is something to be said for the exclusivity of those editions,” Mr Sheng, of Intimate Books, pipes up and Crowley snorts. Aziraphale shifts, leaning forward ever so slightly, and Crowley can already hear the debate weaving through the air, bouncing between bookstore owners.

Because of course this is what the book club is _really_ for. None of them actually read the books they buy from one another’s stores, well except Aziraphale who chooses the books in the first place.

“More tea everyone? Cocoa for you angel?” Crowley asks before the words can start flying. He’s swinging his legs and flinging his arms and sitting up in a flail of limbs, like usual. No one even bats an eye, they’re unfortunately used to his antics, as Aziraphale puts it.

“Oh thank you, dear boy, and if you could bring out the tea cakes too?” Aziraphale adds, giving him a tidy excuse not to be in the room for the slaughter.

Everyone’s got the manners to wait at least and the door’s swinging shut behind him before Mr Singh, of The Occult, The Mystic, and the Eccentric, can get out his open statement. They’ve all sat up though, that much Crowley sees before the door shuts; Mrs Smith’s eyes are glinting and Mr Sheng’s lips are pursed, and Aziraphale’s smile is downright _sharp_.

Crowley, though, gets to run off to the kitchen that didn’t used to exist before the Apocawasn’t; it’s as old fashioned as everything else in the shop and suits the place perfectly. He can sit on the countertop and nibble away at a teacake, honey flavoured, while the book club erupts into chaos over the worth of different book editions. They’ve all got their own precise opinions and they’ve all got good loud voices.

There’s a load of banged chairs and high-pitched shrieking and one notable thump of the wall but it doesn’t dissolve into a physical fight. And by the time Crowley gets out the rest of the teacakes, and remembers to pour the tea, they’re all back in their seats. Mrs Smith’s red in the face and Mr Balk, from the romance section, is decisively ruffled, like a puffed-up duck.

“Thank you, Anthony,” each of them mumbles as he goes round with the platter, handing off their favourite cakes and teas.

Preferences he only learned because it helped pass the time. Really! He’s only in the book club to pass time and make Aziraphale happy, that’s absolutely it.

“Thank you dear,” Aziraphale says and Crowley resettles himself on the couch; sitting up this time as Aziraphale’s lap is preoccupied.

“And what’s next week’s choice?” he asks, entirely to make conversation and pass the time, and not because he’s at all interested.

* * *

There’s probably something to be said for human ingenuity. Humans’ve made quite a lot of incredible things, and half the time they don’t even know what the Heaven they’re doing!

Of all those incredible things, Crowley definitely enjoys the music. So many genres and languages, and not to mention the instruments! Oh music’s a treat, and he particularly likes the places that spring up around it.

There’s twenty-first century clubs full of electric music, buzzing and warbling, beating against his bones in an oddly pleasant way. There’s theatre houses full of sweet notes and snappy musicals that bounce around in his head for days after. And there’s the Bentley at three am cruising along the M25 at a pace that’d have Aziraphale clutching the seat.

He’s not here tonight, and technically Crowley shouldn’t be out here either, but he needed a chance to clear his head out. Working as a nanny’s nowhere near his job description, particularly not to the Anti-Christ, the Adversary, the Destroyer of Kings, and all that tosh. Half the time he wants to dive for cover when Warlock has a tantrum, the other half he wants to strangle Mr and Mrs Dowling.

Neither of those two are what anyone could call “ _good parents_ ” and he’s half a mind to kidnap the boy and raise the Anti-Christ himself. He can’t be worse than Never-There-Thaddeus and Let-The-Nanny-Do-It-Harriet, and he’d have Aziraphale to help. Everything was simpler with Aziraphale, everything was…fine with him.

Freddy crooned about fat bottom girls and Crowley turned onto a quieter country street. They only have these few years to set everything up, influence Warlock and prevent the War; he should be focused on nothing but Warlock. He shouldn’t be taking Warlock on walks with Brother Francis, shouldn’t be letting him have breakfast with the garden.

Nanny Ashtoreth-Crowley should be teaching the boy the ways of evil and temptation, but she’s not.

His fingers tighten around the steering wheel and Crowley thinks about the bouquet of garden flowers Warlock had ferried to Nanny just this morning. All lovely, spotless, and aromatic with neatly clipped stems straight from Brother Francis. He thinks about the walk Nanny went on with Brother Francis after Warlock was happily tucked away tonight, how they stepped shoulder to shoulder.

The Bentley flies down the road, nothing but rolling fields and the odd house now, and Crowley rubs his temple. Nanny _really_ shouldn’t be getting friendly with the gardener, no bouquets or walks or late night glasses of wine, but sod it, what’s the extra bits matter anymore?

They’re quite literally the angel and demon on Warlock’s shoulders, and quite possibly the only two people in the whole universe that don’t want Armageddon to happen. _They’re_ what’s standing between the armies of Heaven and Hell and all out war. Dear **_Someone_** , this whole thing better work.

He’s somewhere around Oxfordshire by the time the song rolls over and he turns back to London.

* * *

Sometimes, when he’s particularly morose— _and very drunk_ — Crowley goes stargazing. He gets out of London, because it’s piss for seeing the moon some nights, and doesn’t take the Bentley. When he gets glum and knackered enough to look at the sky, Queen doesn’t suit the mood and he likes not having to think about the road.

Usually, he finds some empty field out in the country to lie down in. The kind of field with springy grass that’s a bit damp and a treeline off in the distance, with the nearest house a good five miles away. Those are the best, nothing but the bugs buggering and the stars twinkling up above.

Sometimes, if he’s _sloshed_ , Crowley lets his not-white-anymore wings out and spreads them wide. A mysterious breeze always picks up to ruffle his feathers, and the empty bottle in his hand always refills itself full. The stars, for their part, are just as perfect as when he set them up there. Nothing but pricks of light from this planet but blessed if they aren’t lovely pricks.

Tonight, he’s in a field that _isn’t_ utterly empty and the bottle sitting by his knee isn’t full of alcohol potent enough to put a horse to sleep. He still has alcohol— _what good’s anything without it_?—but, this bottle is a very good red wine that Aziraphale said he should bring and currently, Crowley does not have his wings out.

Instead, he’s sitting on a mostly dry, still damp picnic blanket, and the full moon is rising just over the distant treeline. The people are still a fair five miles away though, which Crowley prefers, humans are usually better at a distance; except when they’re bickering over books.

“A blessed Summer Solstice,” Aziraphale offers for a toast, pouring them both generous glasses.

The wine sloshes black under the moonlight, sits like ink in the glass, and Crowley swirls it for a bit before he drinks. Usually when he’s drinking out in fields he doesn’t bother to look at his bottle; it doesn’t matter when he’s drinking to kill his liver.

Tonight it does though, because tonight he’s with Aziraphale. Tonight, a whole year after the _Arma- **don’t** -get-on-with-it,_ he’s having a late-night picnic with the angel he would’ve abandoned the world for. Tonight, he’s drinking wine and eating dainty little finger foods Aziraphale made in his kitchen while said angel smiles so blessedly soft at him.

Night or not, Crowley can see that smile just fine. He would’ve Fallen for that smile, would’ve bloody well swan dived from Heaven if it got him that smile a second earlier.

Aziraphale smiles at him across their little picnic, under the moonlight, and Crowley could almost…he thinks it’s love. The kind of love that drew two hereditary enemies together over and over and over across millennia. The kind of love that’s soft, like angels aren’t supposed to be, and gentle, like demons aren’t.

“Do you remember that play? The funny one,” Crowley says, glancing at Aziraphale’s lovely blue eyes. Such a soft blue, starlight blue really, and so kind. Kind enough to shelter a demon he’d just met, only just met, from a storm.

Neither of them had known what a storm was back then, that had been the first storm ever, but Aziraphale had seen water falling from the sky and he’d sheltered his enemy with one broad wing. Before Earth, the only water either of them had known was Holy Water after all.

Now Crowley’s crowded in close again and there’s not a cloud in the sky; nothing to cover up the lovely moon or stars. He thinks about making an excuse for it, for their thighs pressed together and the warmth between them, for old times sake, but his voice’s stuck in his throat. He can feel Aziraphale breathe, they’re so close, and the softness of his thigh is…it’s nice, and real, very real.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Lovely comedy, I do like Puck,” Aziraphale says, pouring himself another glass, and Crowley takes a chance to stare.

He doesn’t have his glasses tonight, not out here away from everything else with just his angel around. He knows if he stares now, Aziraphale will see it, he’ll see all the feelings Crowley never should’ve had for an angel— _the love_ —and Crowley swallows hard.

He watches how those fluffy white curls fall around Aziraphale’s face, always familiar and reassuringly the same. In the flicker between one breath and the next, Crowley can see Aziraphale’s divine halo burning righteous and true. And when the wind picks up, tousling their clothes, Crowley sees pure white angel’s wings spread to catch the breeze.

Usually he can’t, Aziraphale has impeccable control over himself and a firm grasp on his human skin, but tonight is special. Right now, in this field and on this night, it’s easy to see what’s really there. Crowley can see the wing that sheltered him from the Lord’s wrath, sleek and rumpled and lovely. He can see the halo that proves his angel is just and good, it’s burning nearly too bright to look at but Crowley watches.

He can see the countless eyes blinking in and out of this reality, all starshine blue and full of Aziraphale’s ineffable kindness.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s impossible that the Puck was inspired by a certain demon,” he says, after he finds his voice, as Aziraphale glances back up. There's no multitude of eyes staring at him from another plane, no white angel's wings catching the breeze, no halo. It's just Aziraphale, his soft angel dressed in old fashioned clothes sitting with him on a tartan blanket. 

Crowley thinks about dropping his gaze, closing his eyes, not saying the words like they’ve always done. He thinks about seeing Aziraphale in humans, so many humans, across the millennia and displacing his painful feelings for his angel onto them for just a second. Simpler to love the parts when there wasn't anything against the rules about them; angel's curls and angel smiles and angel eyes. He thinks about walks through the Dowlings’ garden and bouquets of perfect flowers after their godson was safely tucked away.

They’ve never once said, not ever, and they always had excuses on the tips of their tongues. Their sides wouldn’t like it, they were meant to be enemies, it was too dangerous and not worth the risk.

_You go too fast for me._

“Oh Crowley, you didn’t,” Aziraphale says, trying to look stern but a pleased grin sneaks its way across his face instead.

The face of a friend, his only friend through all his time on this planet. The face of an angel that would give his weapon of war to two disobedient humans because he worried about them. The face…of an angel that could sense love.

“Ehh I might’ve,” and he grins too, keeping Aziraphale’s gaze, not looking away.

In a nearly empty field, under the stars he helped hang, Crowley lets himself feel all the many things he’s felt since the garden. He feels the gratitude of shelter and he feels the happiness of a familiar face and the rage of letting children drown. He feels sorry for a spotted snake plant and lonely for some good company and terrified of messing up his one shot at saving the planet.

In a nearly empty field, sitting on a picnic blanket with his very best friend in existence, Crowley feels love.

“Of _course_ , you did,” Aziraphale sighs but it’s fond— _fond!_ —and he smiles as softly as he’s ever has. When Crowley saved him from the Bastille, when Crowley protected his books, when Crowley _loved_ him.

In a nearly empty field, admiring the full moon, Crowley and Aziraphale sit together they way they’ve been for the past six thousand years and the way they’ll be for the rest of forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and feel free to hmu [@darke_eco_freak](https://twitter.com/Darke_Eco_Freak)


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